CITY OF ANGELS – A Murder Story in 30 Chapters (part 22 + 23)

On Thailandblog you can read the pre-publication of the thriller 'City of Angels' which, as the title suggests, takes place entirely in Bangkok and was written by Lung Jan. Today chapter 22 + 23.

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Chapter 22

Dressed only in a sweat-soaked T-shirt and equally damp underpants, J. ran as if possessed through a narrow street in a gloomy-looking neighborhood he didn't immediately recognize. It was twilight and the falling night seemed to want to close the city in its arms with a sinister dark purple glow. Although, there seemed to be a yellowish wax now and then, like a film of stare on an old woman's eye... The street was strangely dead and deserted and the echo of his bare running feet sounded hollow against the monotonous, gray facades . From behind the only lit open window in the whole street, J. heard snatches of Christy Moore's "Smoke & Strong Whisky' wind up. When, panting, he turned into a side street on his right, he saw a little further, right in the middle of this not too fresh alley, brightly lit by a street lamp and swarmed by mosquitoes and other flying rotten insects, a chalk-white clown with his blood-red gauntlet a gigantic bunch of jet-black balloons. Bizarre… J. wanted to shout something to him, but he was short of breath. The clown, who instead of a giant bow tie has a krama around his neck, squinted at him with small false eyes and grinned his flashing, razor-sharp teeth. While J. ran past him in a hurry and in as wide a curve as possible, he held up a middle finger with his other blood-red hand and at the same time let out an unmelodious sounding crack of a wet fart.

To his relief, the alley opened into a wide, tree-lined but again strangely deserted avenue. However, the time he had been given to relax did not last long. Far in the distance, deep screeching roars of something tearing itself free from the deep darkness tore the silence. He got a confused impression of something towering high above him, but he didn't dare look back. Something or someone was chasing him, J. was convinced of that, but who or what was a mystery to him. All he knew was that he/she/it was worse than the deepest darkness and filled with pure evil. From deep in his subconscious bubbled strange sounding names – The Whistler of the Stars – The Devourer of the Dimensions – and, for some reason, what frightened him most – He Who Waits – on… His heart pounded in his throat. What happened to him? Was he going insane? Despite the heat that hung over the city like a lead cloak and the sweat that streamed down his face, his lips and swollen tongue felt bone dry. And something was also wrong with the air quality, he suddenly realized. He couldn't explain it exactly. It smelled musty, something like a home full of incontinent elderly people, but not really. No, it was more the smell of very old things, unpronounceable ancient things, something of dust that had accumulated undisturbed for hundreds of years in a tomb. Desperately, his legs grinding mechanically, he probed his brain for words that would make it all understandable.

At an intersection, the traffic lights flickered and, without much artistic license, painted coarse green and red smears on the wet, shiny road surface. Apparently it had just rained, but he hadn't noticed. A sudden, unexpected stream of cool, almost chilly air brushed his wet back and buttocks. Goosebumps. He had no idea how long he had been running. It seemed like an eternity. He remembered, albeit vaguely, how Sam had walked with him through the deserted streets for a while and then suddenly, to his astonishment, had turned on him. His dog, which in the semi-darkness had looked twice as large as usual, had tried to bite him, barking and growling loudly, his lips curled up and his coarse hair flat on the back of his neck. Snarling and growling, while long wisps of slime dripped from his drooling mouth, he had gone after him. He couldn't remember how, but somehow he had managed to shake off the enraged animal. With a sense of growing desperation, he looked around for landmarks as he continued to run frantically. Strangely enough, he recognized nothing, absolutely nothing, in the streets he continued to traverse at a rapid pace.

At one point he saw something looming in the distance to his left that resembled the dark edge of a forest, but on closer inspection turned out to be a large city park. Something, deep down, told him to go this way. The grass cut into his feet and some indefinable but fast flying insects with kamikaze tendencies ricocheted against his face. Despite the fact that he could barely see a hand under that dense dome of branches and foliage, his speed did not slow. On the contrary, he stretched his legs as far as possible in order to take even larger strides. He went at a breakneck speed through the low bushes, over a fallen tree overgrown with dark moss and through a nice cool stream. At full speed he ran up a hill and on the other side began the descent at an equally rapid pace to ... a cemetery. J. slipped and was just able to grab hold of a solid-looking tombstone with the tips of his fingers and pull it up. Horrified, he looked at the necropolis below him. It was a large, almost endless graveyard. Hundreds and hundreds of rectangular, square, rounded and pointed tombstones of marble, bluestone and granite rose row after row from the terraced steep slope. And most of these were visible to some degree, for all the way down there was a road with tall Gothic streetlamps on either side, clearly illuminating the lower part of the cemetery. The stark silhouettes of the tombs higher up the hill stood out sharply against this backdrop. With what, in the eyes of a casual observer, probably resembled the courage of desperation, J. plunged down a narrow and slippery path. He reached the road without slipping again and, following his instinct, ran to the left. This turned out to be a good choice and soon he was walking through the high, sharp-edged rusty wrought-iron gate that gave the living access to this necropolis.

He was now in a neighborhood of small, shabby-looking shops and tired buildings leaning against each other. Somewhere between the gray brick facades he thought there was a signpost saying 'SLAUGHTER TOWEN' in "SALEMS LOT' but he had passed it in a flash. In any case, it meant – once again – nothing to him. Now that he paid attention, the abandoned-looking and dilapidated shops also seemed to bear strange, strange-sounding names. On the building, next to a front with the roaring sign 'HP LOVECRAFT, AUGUST DERLETH & SONS' stood, hung the strange inscription painted in scarlet red 'ALHAZRED'. Beneath this striking name were a few lines of what he thought were Arabic characters, but he could be wrong, of course. A little further on, he ran past a sign that read 'CTHULHU' in old, flaked paint. The next shopfront that caught his eye carried the insane-sounding 'YOG SOTHOTH'. This really made no sense at all. Where the hell had he ended up? He was now walking past a seemingly long, low stone wall that bordered it with a small canal. The water looked like black glass in the moonless night, but J. was sure that glass couldn't smell so nasty. For a moment he thought he saw with horror a pale green swollen baby corpse bobbing by in the pitch-black water, but he realized, or rather hoped, that it must have been a discarded doll. However, the oversized rats darting from his feet were all too real. Some overconfident specimens lunged at his feet. One jumped up and bit into his left thigh. J. clenched his fist and knocked it aside. He kept running. Apparently without purpose through still unknown streets.

He felt the lethargy in his legs, but still he kept stringing together the kilometers. Suddenly, a horrible shot of pain shot through his right leg. He stopped abruptly and felt his outstretched leg, which felt like hardened poured concrete. While he restlessly looked around for his pursuer(s), J. tried to bury his fingers in his stiffened muscles. The cramp hurt so much… He kneaded and kneaded, trying to move his leg with a feeling of growing desperation. Whatever he did, it seemed to do little. His leg remained stiff and ached beyond description. A few boats folded from old newspapers, floating among the rubbish, now lapped in the dirty water. After what seemed like an eternity, the cramp slowly eased. Blood flowed again through his still aching leg, which now began to tingle. While aware of his revived leg, his attention was suddenly drawn to the sound of a screeching car engine. For some reason he knew that the ominous sound of the roaring machine had everything to do with his mysterious pursuers. He looked around nervously and saw a 1958 Buick Roadmaster turning slowly, almost at a walking pace, into the street in the distance. Instinctively J. sensed the threat posed by the wide American car. Especially when the unseen driver revved up the engine and started driving in his direction at a higher speed.

Limping, he moved with difficulty. His right leg still hurt. He picked up speed slowly, too slowly. He clenched his jaw and desperately tried to hold back the pain. His sweaty face betrayed extreme concentration. But suddenly his gaze reflected only confusion and pain. His feet moved but didn't seem to move. He had the look of a stray calf trapped in a razor-sharp barbed wire fence. He saw with wide eyes that the car was not black, as he had first thought, but midnight blue. A color he had never heard of but suddenly popped up in his mind. He tasted the power of this beautiful new word – midnight blue – and then saw the Whitewall tires suddenly accelerate and the signature chrome grille that always reminded him of the gaping mouth of a crocodile suddenly seem dangerously close. to come. As his brain registered this, for some reason his mind suddenly drifted to the summer of 1974. It had been the last carefree summer of his youth. The last summer before he finally lost his innocence. Less than three months later, he had his first British soldier ambushed somewhere county Down put a bullet through the head… The whole family had been safely with his aunt Maud in the Republic, in her ancient thatched roof cottage in the rolling hills of Connemara. There he had kissed the green-eyed red-haired Siobhan with nice freckles, his first love, on the cliffs near Clifden. It was as if he could still feel the cool, salty sea breeze in his hair. But it wasn't a breeze. Two or three bullets whistled over his head. He suddenly realized the danger and acted impulsively. He turned to the left and threw himself over the wall into the filthy stream with a death thud.

Dazed and drowsy, J. struggled out of the oppressive embrace of the duvet tightly wrapped around him. He had tumbled out of his bed onto the floor. J. couldn't remember if he'd dined too heavily with Kaew in Chinatown the night before. But he vowed never, ever again, to read Stephen King just before going to sleep…

He didn't know if it had to do with his horrible nightmare, but the whole morning was dominated by the Doubt with a capital TJ honestly didn't know what to do anymore. On the one hand there was his connection with Anuwat, but there was a real chance that, if he knew that Narong was involved, he would unleash a gangster war whose end was far from in sight and in which liters of blood would probably flow through the streets of the City of Angels would flow. Nobody with common sense was waiting for that. On the other hand, he realized that the best solution might be a courtesy call to Maneewat. However, he had little desire to end up behind bars himself on charges of attempting to heal a piece of national heritage. He realized that the number of possibilities to get out of his dilemma was quite limited. In Ireland, the tinkers, the tramps with their picturesque covered wagons, a wise saying –If your horse is dead, you must dismount - Maybe, he thought gloomily, it was time to call it off.

He was rudely jolted out of his reverie by a phone call from none other than Anuwat. In short terms, he summoned J. to arrive at 11.00:XNUMX a.m. come to one of his premises to report. It was good news that Anuwat was back in town, because that probably meant Anong was back too. But something gnawed. He wasn't quite sure what it was, but somehow, something seemed off about the brief conversation he had had with Anuwat. The fact that he had personally contacted him was strange anyway. The man loved to delegate and had not heard from him directly since their meeting in his office on Sukhumvit Road. This was, to say the least, an unusual démarche. Moreover, his principal had been extremely curt and he sounded extremely tense. Just to be on the safe side, J. decided to arm himself because he didn't trust Anuwat for anything...

Chapter 23

Coincidentally or not, the address Anuwat had given was on Nonthaburi Road, but very close to Bangkwang Maximum Security Prison, one of the most notorious penal institutions in the world known to most Westerners as Bangkok Hilton but by the Thai de BigTiger because many prisoners never come out alive. It almost seemed as if Anuwat wanted to piss off Justice by owning a country house at this location… Or was this yet another proof of his immense arrogance..?

J. had been dropped off a little further by a taxi and first carefully examined the building and its surroundings. Not inconvenient as a precaution when he suddenly has to run. The building where he was expected was a very spacious bungalow in a large and neatly maintained garden that at first sight extended to the Chao Phraya. He couldn't see the river from here because of the dense vegetation, but J. heard the steady chug of small sloops passing by just at that moment. Cautiously he approached the broken gray-painted front door with a whopper of a brass door knocker in the shape of a gaping lion's head. Before he could knock, the door swung open. J. had expected to see Mr. Teflon or rather Anong but to his surprise he was welcomed by two guys who looked at him through the sights of their AK 47 machine gun. J. expected a lot but not this. He realized it was too late to run, let alone grab his gun. At least these didn't appear to be any of Anuwat's staff. They looked as if they could be as happy killing people as they were eating a nice plate of fried rice. The rear of the two, a muscular, young man whose eyes seemed a little too close together, motioned for him to walk, hands up. The first thing he noticed besides the ill-presenting welcoming committee was the pungent smell that grew stronger as he slowly walked on. He smelled singed hair and possibly burnt pork, but also something distinctly metallic. Maybe a barbecue that got out of hand? But there was also the dark and unmistakable smell of sweat and fear. A stench he'd been all too familiar with in a past he'd longed to forget. Even before he could enter the room at the end of the spacious entrance hall, he thought perhaps the living room, his companions made it clear with a short gesture that he had to stop.

'You wait. khun Narong is coming…said the youngest in an unmistakable Khmer accent.

'huh ? Narang ? ' J. didn't really sound surprised.

'Sawat-dee Khrab', Aran Anong had appeared in the doorway. He was a surprisingly short, wiry man and so exceptionally thin that he must have been malnourished in his youth or these were the marks of his years in Khmer captivity. He was wearing a semi-military outfit. Dark blue canvas trousers with side pockets, black leather ATAC boots and a black T-shirt. His face was marked by two conspicuous scars running parallel from his eye to the corner of his mouth that disfigured his left cheek, a souvenir of his 1969 injury. His cheeks were otherwise unhealthily sunken, almost hollow. His eyes - which J. suspected would be hidden deep in the sockets - were shielded by tinted sunglasses with silver-gray lenses. His teeth were too white and too straight. 'Possibly dentures thought J. Narong saw him looking at his teeth and said almost apologetically in amazingly good English 'Amazing how quickly your teeth fall out when you have scurvy. If you spend months in a Khmer hell hole, then a menu of a handful of half rotten rice supplemented with some crickets or worms will not suffice to make up for your vitamin C deficiency.' Narong was now so close to him that J., despite the burning smell in the house, smelled Narong's Old Spice aftershave, perhaps a reminder of his American period.

Narong had one of the two heavily armed Khmer J. searched. With a crooked grin, he plucked the loaded SIG from his shoulder holster and moments later the sharpened SAS dagger also disappeared from its holder on his left leg. To J.'s frustration, he put this gem – a souvenir of a 'wrong' uncle who, like many other Northern Irishmen, had served in the British army – right in his own boot. J. had the greatest difficulty in controlling himself when the Khmer noticed the Breitling on his wrist with glittering eyes. Within seconds it had disappeared into his pocket. Strangely enough, however, he was allowed to keep his brand new and, above all, indecently expensive telephone, in the breast pocket of his shirt.

'So Farang, now it's straight between you and me. Aren't you curious why I invited you? '

' Maybe for the barbecue?'  J. snorted, who had waited a moment, hoping his voice wouldn't carry too much of his raw fear.

'Haha ! That's a good…' Narong's laugh didn't really sound sincere. With a gallant gesture of his hand, he invited J. to continue walking. J. felt a rush of adrenaline rushing through his body and his heart beat in an uncomfortably fast rhythm. He told himself he'd been in front of this kind of hot fire before. That he had regularly experienced worse. But nothing could have prepared him for the horrific spectacle that awaited him.

In the center of the generously proportioned living room, Anuwat, or at least what remained of him, sat on an enormous sheet metal-covered hardwood chair, a piece of home craft that seemed to be a mixture of a throne and an electric chair. The businessman-gangster wasn't just killed, he was devastated. His legs and arms were strapped with leather straps to the metal-reinforced legs and railing. Yet in his agony he had managed to almost wring one leg free. He was lying in a strange position with one leg raised almost over the other. In the eyes of the surprised J. it looked as if Anuwat had died trying to perform a morbid version of the ever-popular soundless buttock fart pose… His brutally and sloppily cut fingers and toes lay around the chair sprinkled. Apparently, this job had used ordinary kitchen shears that were bloodied on the floor, which would have made the torture slower and certainly more painful. Anuwat's chest, shoulders, and head were bound with wide leather straps to the frame and sturdy headrest. He couldn't move his head. And that was no coincidence. It was half-burned, or better said, charred by the boiling gold that Narong or one of his accomplices had poured into his mouth, a twisted pinkish mess of teeth, flesh and jawbone. The remainder of his tongue hung on a purple-blue tendon from a big gash in his cheek. Perhaps he had bitten them off… Gold melts at 1.100 degrees Celsius, J. knew and the havoc this had caused was enormous and horrible. Red hot flakes of gold had hissed and hissed their way through his skin, connective and fat tissue, muscle mass and skull. His right eyeball had exploded from a spilled glowing drop of gold and his nose bridge had been largely eaten away by the precious metal. His left eye socket and jaw were coated with gold, and most of his once-carefully trimmed hair had been singed away. The scorching metal had blackened and lacerated his chest and abdominal wall, making it look as if he had vomited part of his half-cooked innards. It might have taken him only a few seconds to die but he must have lain smoldering and bleeding for minutes… Disgusted and with eyes wide in disbelief, J. saw to the right of the corpse, carelessly tossed in the corner of the room like rubbish, the remains of the Buddha statue that was cut to pieces by an absolute culture barbarian with a grinding wheel. Despite his horror, J. noticed that the sculpture was not made of solid gold, as he had always suspected, but had been built around a core of brick and cement. The rubies from the naga heads had disappeared, perhaps in the pockets of the Khmer…. An overturned gas bottle with burner and a melting pot made it clear how they had melted the gold.

'Esteem and respect have always been worth more to me than fame, esteem more than a great name, and honor more than fame. This bastard has not only taken away my honor and the best years of my life, but also the thing that was closest to my heart: my wife and child. Narong's voice was icy but also unexpectedly calm. For some reason J. found that the most disturbing thing… Calmly he continued. 'Believe me… In the end, he was nothing more than what he's always been: a common piece of shit. He has cursed, wept and begged to spare his most precious possession, his image… HIS image!"Suddenly Narong Ran"The Guts of that CLOTHING ..! HIS God damn image… It never belonged to him, it belonged to the FULL! "As quickly as he was enraged, calm returned"The filthy wretch, that crappy bastard has at least learned his lesson now…'

The troubled J. asked "Why did you let him lure me here?"

"You wouldn't have stopped until you found the statue, would you?" it sounded laconic. “I've made some inquiries about you here and there, and to be honest, I liked it. You're a go-getter. Once you've got your teeth into a business, you don't give up easily... I like that, Farang…'

J. honestly didn't know if he should be happy with this praise.

“Besides, you were too close to my heels. And I don't like a gasp on my neck. And this way I could make it very clear to you that no one messes with me. ' There was power in these words. J. fully realized that his opponent meant it.

"You might as well have gotten rid of me…" replied J.

' I had my personal reason not to. If you leave me alone, I promise you on my soldier's honor that you and yours will not be hurt one bit…'

'But I've seen your handiwork in the meantime and I don't like it at all. Besides, there's one thing that really intrigues me. Why are the Americans suddenly so interested in you?'

'Ha! Good question ! A little less than a year ago, when I was already busy finalizing the preparations for my ultimate act of revenge, I suddenly stumbled across one of my old friends in a whorehouse in Phnom Penh. CIA handlers bump into. He thought he saw a ghost and a few seconds later he probably really did because then I had already cut his throat… Unfortunately, this did not go unnoticed and an eyewitness managed to give a good description of the person, so that the Yankees - who, like the Thai, had thought me dead for years – were soon on my heels. One of their overly zealous operators almost had me in Battambang at the end of August, but I was a little quicker and cut him down before they could take me out. It's a tough game boy, but someone has to play it..' Narong grinned briefly.

'Exactly that's why I've already finished this bag. I would have loved to use it as a toy for a few more days but one of my informants – oh yes, kid, I have informants too and better ones than yours – let me know yesterday that the Americans had me in Bangkok two days ago with image recognition software can identify. Apparently, no matter how hard you try, you can't do all of them fucking dodging cameras in this city… The simple fact that the Thai cops would bend over backwards to please their American friends, I had to act much faster than I wanted to.'

"But why the murders of the innocent?"

'Who is guilty? Who innocent?' Narong looked at J. He could see the sweat of fear beading his face in the reflection of Narong's sunglasses. 'You know, sooner or later you will see, have to see, that morality is nothing more than a working hypothesis of temporary duration. Nothing anymore…' He seemed to think for a moment and then sped off' Listen, as for Anuwat's staff, that was collateral damage. They were in the wrong place at the wrong time. The guard who had given me a hand for a hefty ransom and who had not only turned off the cameras but also let us into the villa had gotten too greedy at the last minute… My mistake, I had misjudged him. Can happen you know… He has had to find out that I don't like idiots who break their word… A deal is a deal for me. Those who fail to honor this must bear the consequences. It's that simple. And the other security guard thought he had to play the hero…' Narong paused and, grinning, ran his right index finger across his throat.  

“As for the knowledgable pro… Well, I've already told you I don't like pants on my neck. It wouldn't have taken him long to put the puzzle pieces in order. In addition, the bold questions he had here and there about Task Force 838 added the undesirable side effect of alarming the Americans. All the police stations in this basket are as leaky as a sieve. According to my sources, within XNUMX hours of the professor starting his investigation, a Thai CIA informant was already confessing at the US embassy, ​​so there was only one solution. '

"But why torture him?"

'Because the gentleman wasn't really willing to answer my questions correctly…I had to find out exactly how much he had told you anyway. You know, I have to give him credit for having a lot more swagger than I expected from such a stupid intellectual. He has persevered for a very long time, but in the end everyone breaks. He too…'

'So a human life is worth nothing to you?'

'What ? ! Are we suddenly going to play the moralist? Aren't you ashamed, kid? ! While I was interested in checking your antecedents, I came across some very interesting information regarding your persona, more specifically what I will describe as your childhood sin… A terrorist trying to lecture me. I have to admit you've got guts little boy…'

J. stiffened visibly and thought for a moment that his heart had stopped. He felt even more nauseated. What he had feared for years had happened. For the first time in nearly thirty years, his carefully maintained cover, the lie of his life, had fallen. He felt a cold sweat break out as his head threatened to explode under the thousands of questions that stormed his brain.

' Don't worry, I have a soft spot for men with balls on their bodies. Although I have done business with some of your old friends in the past, I have not – yet – informed them of your miraculous resurrection from the Realm of the Missing. Be honest: what do you have against me? If you want to go to the police, you don't have a leg to stand on. Officially I'm dead and buried… And besides… How are you going to prove my involvement? You have nothing in your hands…Nothing at all…”

'Who says this will end here and now? Can you guarantee me that? '

Narong seemed to think for a moment. He took off his sunglasses and thoughtfully began to polish the lenses. J was right. His eyes were indeed deep in their sockets, but he had never seen such a blank look. If the eyes were the mirrors of the soul, this man would have died an eternity ago… There was silence for minutes. It seemed as if Narong was thinking about how to proceed. Suddenly he turned back to J.

'Hey Farang! Do you know Suspicious Minds from Elvis?'

'huh ? Yes of course' it sounded bewildered.

'Great, then we'll do it like this. You turn around and start singing loudly. Good for our 'relationship'…'

'What ? ! You're even crazier than I thought...'

'You turn around', Narong repeated imperturbably, ' close your eyes and start singing. When you've finished singing you can come and find me... Or no, better yet. Then you can go home without a damaged hair. ‘

'And if I cheat?'

'Then I or one of my boys will shoot you.'

'Enough talking! Turn around and start!' That was clearly an order.

J. heard the click of a safety catch being turned.

He opened his mouth…We're caught in a trap' it sounded hesitant.

"Louder kid!"

'I can't walk out

Because I lOVE YOU TO MUCH BABY'

He caught himself involuntarily kicking the beat with his right foot…

WE CAN'T GO ONE TOGETHER

WITH SUSPICIOUS MIIIIIIINDS ! '

At the end of the last roaring aloud stanza he spun around but could find no trace of his assailants. Only his SIG was carelessly thrown away in the corner, without a charger, of course. They must have fled to the rear. J. did not think and impulsively ran after them. He had to prevent Narong from blowing his cover at all costs. He walked quickly through the open sliding doors of the sun terrace and found himself in a southern European-looking patio, a spacious walled garden. He looked around doubtfully. Narong or his accomplices were nowhere to be seen. Where the hell had they gone? They couldn't have gone up in smoke... As he hurried through the garden, he suddenly saw, camouflaged by two oversized ornamental shrubs in huge Italian terracotta pots, an inconspicuous, small wooden gate. Again without thinking, he took a short run and pounded open the gate with his shoulder. Before him lay the Chao Phraya in all its majesty. He saw one from the jetty that bordered the garden longboat racing south with a revved-up engine and three occupants. There was another motorboat at a mooring post. J. immediately recognized the slender and glossy mahogany model as a beautifully restored Riva Florida, an Italian maritime style icon from the XNUMXs and XNUMXs. No doubt this was one of Anuwat's toys. Luckily the key was in the ignition. J. didn't hesitate for a moment, he jumped on board and gave chase. He gave full throttle but soon realized that his swinging and light boat was no match for the much faster longboat. He had almost lost sight of the trio at the big bend that the river makes between Thon Buri and Bang Kho Laem. As he emerged from the equally sharp bend at Ban Rungrueang, he saw them moor in the distance, on a jetty past the customs buildings, and storm ashore. Less than a minute later, J. sent his Riva with a perfect turn to the bank.

Just in front of him was an old quay, long disused. He moored and looked searchingly to the left and right, but Narong and his accomplices had disappeared without a trace. There was no shortage of usable places to hide. Apparently he knew his way around here like the back of his hand and, as befits a well-trained soldier, had long ago thought carefully about possible escape routes. Incidentally, J. thought he could detect a certain operational logic in his preference for locations on the waterfront. On the Chao Phraya and the channels, the klongs there were hardly any traffic jams, let alone police checks.

Perhaps he was hiding somewhere in Klong Toey. J knew it was a good chance, but what if he still used the safe house that Lung Nai had made available to him in the harbor district…? J. decided to give up hunting for a while and return in the morning. 'If you leave cloudy water alone, it will clear itself' that old Chinese wanker of a Lao-Tse had once said and according to J. he was more than right.

To be continued…..